


a flower gilded gold

by ectobaby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Derse and Prospit, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Kingdomstuck, M/M, Magic, Political Alliances, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby/pseuds/ectobaby
Summary: Outside the stone ledge of your window, the gardener whistles like a blue jay. You try not to pay him any mind.(Or, Prince Dirk of Derse attempts to draft a peace treaty with Prospit, only to become increasingly distracted by his gardener.)
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 30
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story is told in a fairytale-esque prose, showing different snapshots of john and dirk's time together. it's 95% done and i'll probably update it every other day.

He’s back again, the young man at your window.

Every day, like clockwork, he comes to tend to the greenery on your balcony. He prunes, sheers, plucks, and plants. You can admit that your royal station doesn’t require much knowledge in the way of horticulture, but you’re certain that this level of care is bordering excessive.

At the very least, it’s _distracting_.

You hover over your study desk, carefully combing over the latest correspondence from Prospit. It’s a fickle matter, one that requires your utmost attention. An alliance between the Kingdom of Derse and the Kingdom of Prospit is necessary, if not vital. And, if all goes well, negotiations for a peace treaty should soon be set in motion.

That doesn’t mean it’s not dull work. You’ve read the same passage five times without parsing a single word.

Outside the stone ledge of your window, the gardener whistles like a blue jay.

You try not to pay him any mind.

Watching him work becomes your favorite pastime, and that’s troubling because you can’t afford pastimes. 

But, nevertheless, you find your interest drawn toward tan skin, freckled from the sun, and beaded with sweat. You find yourself thinking of strong forearms tending to delicate flora. You daydream of dark messy, windswept hair, and blue eyes behind gold-wire spectacles.

And each day he grows bolder.

Today proves to be no exception. He leans inside, propping himself on the windowsill, shamelessly watching you draft a lengthy response to Prospit's latest correspondence. It’s jarring. You’re not used to being gawked at so openly; most are afraid to even make eye contact. You are Dirk, Prince of Derse, and you are untouchable.

But the gardener has no qualms about it. He sits and observes like you’re a particularly perplexing puzzle. It’s strange.

 _He’s_ strange.

You aren’t sure how he manages to get on the balcony in the first place. Scale the trellis? A ladder? These aren’t matters you should be troubling yourself with, but you're curious all the same. You could ask him if you wanted to. He’s right there, a silent sentry spying on you.

“It’s rude to stare,” you tell him without looking up from your work, a cold display of indifference. It’s important for you to appear in control at all times, even when you aren't. 

“You stare all the time,” he accuses. 

“That’s different.”

“Because you’re the prince?”

This is the first time you’ve heard him speak more than a couple of syllables. His voice is nice, smooth and low, laced with a hint of an accent that you can't quite put your finger on. You turn to look at him fully, and he rests his chin in the palm of his hand, a broad grin stretched on his face. He’s handsome, in an impish way. 

“Yes, because I'm the prince."

“Well, I’m John.”

You blink, not entirely sure how to respond. The castle workers tend to keep to themselves and aren’t so brazen in their attempts at conversation. It’s as if John the Gardener has never encountered a member of royalty a day in his life.

You hate to admit that's part of his curious draw. It’s been a long while since you’ve entertained yourself, even longer since you’ve entertained someone else. Carefully, you close your ledger, placing it and your quill to the side. John looks fascinated by your decision, his face beaming as if he’s won a secret game. 

“Nice to meet you, I suppose,” you say, grimacing. You’re rusty when it comes to small talk and hadn’t meant for it come out so impolite. Maybe he didn’t notice.

John’s grin widens. He noticed. “You _suppose_ , Your Majesty? And for that, I suppose that _I_ _suppose_ that it’s nice to meet you too.”

You frown and he laughs brightly.

Alright. You can’t help but feel that you’re at the wrong end of an elaborate prank. Did Dave pay the court jester to come and jeer at you again? That must be it. It’s disconcerting, sure, but you wouldn’t say this one is doing a particularly good job. Mostly he’s just talking in circles.

While your mind works, your mouth refuses to say anything, lapsing you both into an awkward silence. John doesn’t seem to mind, too busy reveling in delight at your fluster. You decide the best course of action is to turn back around and hide your burning face. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him disappear from the window and over the ledge of the balcony.

A ladder, you decide, returning to your work with shaky hands. He must have a ladder.

In the morning, when you drag yourself to your study, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, there’s something on your desk that _isn’t_ a fresh mountain of scrolls and wax-sealed envelopes. That’s odd, you think. It’s usually a fresh mountain of scrolls and wax-sealed envelopes.

Hm.

You pick up the small pot to hold it eye-level for inspection. It’s made of a sturdy clay painted bright blue, decorated in ornate golden swirls. A pretty thing that houses a healthy arrangement of white flowers. They’re lovely and aromatic and you have no idea why they’re on your desk.

The gardener.

You turn, only to catch a glimpse of John’s familiar tunic as he disappears in a blur of blue.

The next day, in place of your own responsibilities, you sit on the window ledge and study the way John tends to the foliage. There’s a certain clumsiness in his dexterity that you hadn’t expected. Maybe he’s finally the one who’s caught off guard, nervous under his watchful eye. You let your thoughts quietly wander, but they keep circling back to the mysterious bouquet.

White poppies, according to Rose. She’d found them curious.

“Was that you?”

John hums, idly plucking dead leaves from the creeping ivy and tossing them over his shoulder. He shrugs.

“I know it was,” you tell him, “I don’t know why you’re being coy.”

He turns to you with owlish, innocent eyes. But you know better, they aren't innocent at all.

“Did you not like them?”

“No, I did,” you say. They’re sitting on your bedside table, but you don’t tell him that. “Thank you.”

For the first time, John’s smile is sheepish. He ducks his head, continuing his work and you continue to watch him.

“It wasn’t me,” he says, but you don’t believe him.

The rest of the morning, well into the afternoon, you spend engaging in idle chatter. The work piled on your desk goes untouched, haunting your peripherals, but every attempt to return to it is thwarted by John asking you a question.

_What’s the use of being a prince if your days are spent working?_

_Isn’t there someone else to do that for you?_

_What’s so important?_

None of these are appropriate subjects to discuss with a gardener, but you answer them anyway.

Derse is ran solely by the royal family, you explain. Prince is both your title and your job. So, no, there isn’t anyone to do this for you. Dave and Rose are too young, and your father is dead, slain on the battlefield with a blade through his chest. John looks horrified at that admission but you let him know that it isn’t something that upsets you, more of a fact that you dole out whenever someone asks. John looks horrified at that too. But, to be fair, he didn’t know your father. His passing had been the only reason that Prospit entertained the idea of a peace treaty. And that brings you around to your final answer.

Everything.

Everything is important.

Derse weighs heavy on your shoulders, but you put all that aside to find a little respite with John, if only for the day.

Your skin isn’t used to the sun.

Recently, you traded your typical heavy garments of crushed velvet for loose, linen tunics. They make the summer heat more bearable when you join John on the balcony, helping to keep you cool when you'd otherwise burn to a crisp.

John traces a finger along the patch newly-blossomed freckles on the backs of your hands. You suck in a sharp breath when he skates along the inside of your wrist. It’s been a long time since someone has last touched you like this.

“What are you doing?”

“Connecting the dots,” he says, a smile evident in his voice. “Back I’m home, we call them angel kisses.”

You want to ask him where home is, but you’re far too disturbed by his casual mention of angel kissing.

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t think you’ve seen an angel.”

“No, I guess not. Have you?” 

“Yes, on a hunting trip when I was a child. They’re ferocious, blinding white beasts of light with gaping maws full of teeth.” You pause for dramatic effect. He looks at you blandly. “Horrorbeasts,” you explain. “They’re built of nightmares.”

“That’s pretty neat,” John says. His hand rests against a patch of freckles at the bend of your elbow, and he seems wholly unaware of the effect it has. “Did you kill one?”

“No,” you snort. “You don’t _kill_ angels.”

John looks up and grins from ear-to-ear.

Your cheeks go warm, looking away. “You don’t kiss them either.”

You learn many things about John in the passing weeks. You learn that he likes to play pranks and tell jokes. Ironic, because he’s not funny in an orthodox way. Not that it matters much to you, because you still find yourself laughing.

You’d almost forgotten how to do that.

There are strange, golden flowers growing around your window. They glow bright and luminescent as if they’re absorbing the sun and reflecting it back in a dazzling display.

Stopping and smelling the roses has never really been part of your itinerary, but here you are. Leaning down, you bury your nose in a blossom. They smell of apricots and honeysuckle; sweet and floral. You’ve never seen anything quite them and, since John is nowhere around to ask, there’s only one logical solution.

Carefully, you pluck one from the vine. The glow dims slightly but, for the most part, it stays shining. There hasn’t been magic in Derse in a very long time and whatever this species is—it’s magic. The dull thrum of power pulses against your skin, crawling up your arm in tiny tendrils that you can feel.

You head to the library.

Rose is tucked beneath a stained-glass window, the one depicting Skaia’s old Gods. You always hated this window as a child, and you hate it now. It depicts two snakes at war, ruthlessly sinking their teeth into each other, intertwined and forever linked. Its official name is _Destiny Knot_ , but you just call it tasteless.

She looks up from her reading, violet eyes honing in on the flower gently cupped in your palm. Quirking a very interested, perfectly sculpted, brow, she asks, “Another?”

“Something like that.” You sit next to her and deposit the floret directly on the pages of her book. A single petal falls off, immediately dulling to a muted yellow. “They’re growing in my windowsill trough.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?” you ask, and Rose turns to you, lips pursed—not in a manner that would suggest she’s annoyed, but that she’s trying to keep something in. You’re immediately skeptical. “What?”

“Is it because my name is Rose that you assume that I’m the authority on anything and everything floral?”

“No, I just assume that you’re the authority on anything and everything. You certainly act like it.”

She snorts and gingerly picks up the fallen petal, rubbing it between her fingers. It leaves a mustard-tinted residue that makes her frown. “I think you should ask your gardener.”

“I don't know where he is.”

“He’s the gardener,” Rose says evenly, “I don’t know where else he’d be.”

Oh. She may have a point.

The search doesn’t last very long. You’re halfway to the groundskeeper’s quarters, a row of cabins just outside the bordering forest, when a blur of blue stops you. John grabs you by the arm, eyes wide, and roughly tugs you back up the hill before you can make heads or tails of the situation.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

You think that you could reasonably ask John the same question, but you’re too busy frantically searching for posted sentry guards. You’re a _prince_ , and you’re letting the gardener drag you by the wrist like a hound on a leash. It’s humiliating but, more than that, it’s dangerous. Anyone that saw would demand John’s head on a spike.

He leads you to the hedge maze in the middle of the courtyard, pushing you through shrubbery instead of taking the intended path. It cuts you straight to the center, while also cutting several tears in your blouse.

John gives that final push and you go stumbling toward a fountain that you haven’t seen since you were a child. It looks frozen in time, just how you remembered, and suddenly you’re hit with a saccharine wave of nostalgia. This had been your safe haven once, a stolen place away from the guards and away from your father.

At least you know you’re protected from wandering eyes. No one comes here anymore. Not even you.

Despite his perpetual forwardness, John must know that the nature of your relationship isn’t commonplace. He must know that you can’t get caught together like this. Fraternizing. That the two of you are from different rungs in Derse’s hierarchy.

When he lets you go, you rub at your wrist, frowning. Not because it hurts, but because you instantly miss the touch.

“What were you doing?” John asks again.

That seems like a question with an obvious answer, you think, but you answer anyway. “Looking for you.”

“Why?”

The edge in his voice pierces sharp, making you pause to take in the furrow of his brow. He looks angry and you look foolish. Remembering the half-wilted flower in your pocket doesn’t help matters.

“Well. It feels unimportant now.”

John’s face softens a fraction, lip twitching. “I don’t know about that. Try me, Your Highness.”

Shame coils tight in your gut and you pull out the remains of what was once a beautiful blossom. It looks sad now, pathetic in your hands.

“I was just curious about the species you’ve planted on my balcony.”

“Aww,” John sighs, disappointed, holding out his open palm for you to hand him what’s left. His bottom lip plumps into a point. “This is what bloomed?”

“Yes. But I believe I killed this one,” you report remorsefully. “The others look a lot better.”

John laughs, tossing his head back, throwing the bits over his shoulder. “I’d say so but, that’s okay. I’m just a bit disappointed that they turned out to be flowers after all!”

Wait. _Pardon?_

“What else would they be?”

“Well,” John says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, “I bought them off a man in—uh, in town, and he told me they were enchanted seeds.”

Time slows as you try to parse what he’s saying to you. In the end, there’s no eloquent interpretation. Your eyebrows nearly lift off your head, face wrought with so many conflicting emotions, you couldn’t pick just one if peace depended on it.

“John,” you say slowly. “Did you plant _magic beans_ in my window trough?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds silly!” He crosses his arms, cocking his hip like a petulant child. It’s endearing. It’s charming. It’s…

Hilarious.

A laugh bubbles out of you, and then another, and another. They each sound foreign to your ears, despite having laughed quite a bit recently. These are louder, relentless, and you have to collapse against the side of the fountain to catch your breath, thinking that maybe you’ve been broken. They won’t stop.

Laughter of this nature is contagious. It cracks John’s poor charade and he’s laughing alongside you. You’re too far away from the castle for anyone to hear, at the center of the maze where it’s only the two of you holding onto against each other for support. You laugh until you’ve forgotten what was funny; until you’re laughing at the warm feeling inside your chest.

Later, when it’s tapered off and you’re left in comfortable silence with John pressed to your side, he asks, “Were they at least pretty?”

You tilt your head just enough to look into blue eyes and tell him they were beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s much to be done—and that’s mostly to blame on the lax attitude you’ve adopted. It’s just that John makes such convincing arguments, it’s hard for you to tell him no. And once you’ve slipped into the habit…

Why _shouldn’t_ you lay on the balcony and pick out shapes in the sky?

You never knew a cloud could look so much like a stallion until John had pointed it out. Is that really something you should deprive yourself of? You didn’t see it at first, tilting your head this way and that, chalking it up to another one of his horrible pranks. But then he'd waggled a finger, pointing lazily at the sky, and the vision became clearer and clearer. You would have thought it magic if such a thing existed in Derse.

But it doesn’t.

It's Prospit that’s the land of sorcerers and witches.

_Prospit._

Right. You really need to get back to your work. Today you won’t fall victim to his charm. The continued search for peace is what matters, not dallies with a mischievous gardener. Even when said gardener is poking his head through your open window and waving.

“What are you doing?” John asks, leaning so far in that he might tumble.

“Drafting a proposal,” you say. The highly-classified information slips from your lips before you can think better of it, and you don’t. You don’t think better of it at all. “Do you think they’d like a cavalry? We don't have many natural resources to offer, but everyone loves militia aide. Right?”

John makes a face. “I don’t know about that. I guess so. It seems kind of boring.”

“I could offer up an endless crop of glowing flowers because we seem to have those in abundance. They just keep multiplying, I’m up to my neck in them,” you say drily.

“How do you think I feel!” John shrieks. He doesn’t have to reach far to pluck a blossom from the overgrowth. “I’m the one that has to tend to them! I’m starting to think they’re an invasive species.”

He enthusiastically chucks the cabbage-like floret of gold through your window. It rolls over your desk, leaving faint traces of shimmering magic on your documents, ruining them. It’s fine. You were still several drafts off from being satisfied. 

“Your majesty,” John calls.

You ignore him, your quill scribbling quickly across the parchment. You can’t. Not today.

_“Your majesty!”_

Prospit has rejected yet _another_ proposal. That makes three in a row.

“I know you hear me!”

Their correspondence had stated that they’ve already decided on negotiation and that their demands would be sent soon. Demands. Derse isn’t a wealthy kingdom and you’ve already offered up everything of value that it has.

“Dirk.”

You turn around quickly, poised to spit venom. It dies on your tongue. John’s smiling brightly, and it’s a smile that by now is all too familiar. He’s up to something and you would very much like to find out what it is. Just a few stolen moments, what could it hurt? You can clear your head and then double down…

“Sorry, I was working.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re always working.”

“My burden as Prince,” you say with an apologetic smile. “Did you need something?”

“Yes!” He pauses for dramatic effect, huffing irritably when there’s no immediate response. “It’s you. Come on.”

You climb out onto the balcony like you always do when he requests your audience...and that’s with great difficulty. The foliage has gotten a bit out of control in the recent weeks, and not just the flowers; the ivy drips from the banister and crawls up the trellis to creep up the stone. Hm. You’re not the only one slacking.

Before you can sit in your usual spot among the vines, John takes you by the wrist and pulls you to the railing.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he says; as if that’s a thing that you can do.

“I can’t.”

John’s shoulders deflate with an undignified sigh. “Again, what’s the point of being a prince if you can’t do what you want?”

A question you've been asking yourself more and more in recent weeks. Bitterness fills your chest. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Most days you make a conscious effort not to hold your station above John’s head. When you’re together, you attempt to exist simply as Dirk, not the Prince of Derse. But it’s not easy to undo years of conditioning when you’ve been groomed to believe you are better, even when you’ve never quite felt it.

You look to John, expecting hurt, but there's nothing but a peculiar sort of empathy.

“Maybe not, but I promise this will be worth it. Soon you'll have a lot of big decisions to make! Every day I see you hunched over your desk writing and reading. You’ll get burnt-out like that! You need a day for yourself.”

“Just the other day we sat out here until nightfall," you attest. 

“That doesn’t count,” John tells you. He gestures wildly, pointing to the castle grounds in sweeping, dramatic movements. “You have to get _away_ from all this!”

Oh.

How…how long has it been since you’ve left?

“I don’t know where I would go,” you say truthfully.

The impish curl to his lips returns and he straddles the railing to grab ahold of the trellis, swinging a leg over to plant his boot firmly in a groove. “Don’t worry about that. I know a place.”

None of this seems smart. You look over your shoulder, through the window at your abandoned desk, the stack of papers, the lonely quill propped in your pot of ink. You turn back to John, already making his descent to the ground below. Taking a deep breath, you make a choice that you may regret later. But later isn’t now, and right now you’re scaling the side of the castle in a way you haven’t done since you were a child.

You can’t help but notice John's not as sure-footed as you expect from someone who does this daily.

The location John’s picked is beyond the forest line, a brisk hike away that he fills with idle chatter. You’re thankful for your casualwear, a light tunic, and breeches, something you’d never wear outside the confines of your quarters. You’re thankful for _three_ reasons.

One, hiking through the woods in your full princely attire would be cumbersome at best.

Two, it acts as a makeshift disguise. The guards aren't expecting you to be dressed like this.

The third reason is _much_ more embarrassing than its predecessors.

The problem is, typically it takes two handmaidens to get you fully buckled and laced in the morning, and then again to be disrobed at night. Layers and layers of heavy wool dyed in dark purples plague your existence. It's uncomfortable and superfluous. But more than that, you can’t exactly _swim_ in it

No. A tunic is much quicker to slip over your head, and linen breeches are easier to shuck off. You should know, considering you’ve just watched John strip with little to no difficulty. You’re still fully dressed, standing dumbstruck at the bank. Observing.

The pond's lovely. The water is emerald green with pink and white waterlilies that cling to the edges near the stalks of cattails. Beneath the surface, minnows dart to make a clearing for John as he wades in, clad in only his underclothes. He doesn’t disrupt the magical ambiance of the scene, only adds to it.

You drop your eyes, back to the water.

It’s been a long time since you’ve indulged in a swim; back when the twins were still small. The closest that you’ve come since then is the long, drawn-out bath you take before bed. But soaking in a tub of scented oils isn’t the same as diving into water deeper than you are tall. You can’t sink to the bottom of a bath to drown out the sound to float weightlessly.

You also can’t do that now, frozen in place by the sight of John shirtless and wet. Your eyes have betrayed you again, wandering back up to find him. Water glistens and drips down the rivets of muscle on his back, the sun reflecting off his natural glow. There are a few scars, you notice, pink and white lines that cut through his tanned skin; stories that John hasn't elected to share.

Perhaps one day.

He asks you to join him.

You take off your shirt.

Together you dry on the bank, side-by-side in the grass.

Your hair, normally styled swept back into hardened curls with a waxy pomade, falls limp below your ears, the color of wet straw. You complain, as you always do when it’s not fashioned to your liking, and John rolls his eyes. But that’s to be expected from someone whose hair looks like it’s been styled solely by the wind. You tell him that you hate the damp feeling clinging to your cheeks. He tells you that you’re being dramatic.

You’re inclined to agree, but you don’t.

Moments later, a strong current blows through the trees, rattling the limbs and nearly blowing away your trousers. It comes from nowhere. Strange. But at least it leaves your hair significantly drier.

On the walk home, John appears almost smug.

_CLANK._

“I hear you have a secret paramour, brother.”

_CLANK. CLANK._

“You hear too many things.”

_CLANK._

Dave swings his sword again and you block it with practiced ease. You both bear down, eyeing each other through your crossed wooden blades. Dave bares his teeth and you push off, staggering back to put some distance between you. Carefully, you watch as Dave’s chest heaves beneath his bright-red sparring gear. He waves you off. As always, your strife ends in a draw.

“You’re right,” he says, wiping the faint trace of sweat from his brow. “And, lately, most of them concern you. You stay locked in your study all day. You disappear—”

“I don’t disappear—”

“—into the woods and come back with damp clothes and frazzled hair. Do you want to know what Rose thinks? I don’t think you want to know what Rose thinks.”

“I don’t want to know what Rose things,” you agree, though you know Dave plans to tell you anyway.

“She thinks you’re in love with the gardener.”

Are you in love with John?

Looking down at where John rests his head in your lap, dozing peacefully, you unquestionably know the answer. It squeezes your heart like a vise, making it hard to breathe. You suffocate with the feeling. Remorse. Guilt. Shame.

Because if you love John, it doesn’t matter. In the grand scheme, it’s unimportant.

You try not to think about it.

You think about it a lot.

You should've never put a name to the feeling in your chest. Now, when you look out your study window and John looks up from his pruning to smile and wave, your stomach somersaults. Fine. It always did, but now you’re hyper-aware as to why.

It’s dangerous.

John is dangerous.

And you should not love him, but you do.

“I’ve made you something,” you tell him.

John lights up brighter than the golden blossoms dotting his backdrop. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, yet eagerly holds out his hands. “What is it?”

Behind your back, you hold the tiny contraption in a sweaty palm.

It’d recently occurred to you that John has brought you several gifts and that’s _not_ including the jungle that’s currently taken root on your balcony. That’s more of an oversight due to negligence. The point is, you’ve offered exactly nothing in return. And so, several nights were spent tinkering at your workbench in dim candlelight. It’d been difficult to complete like that, but the one time you tried to get anything done during the day, you’d been spotted by the twins.

Rose had taken one look at you and shook her head.

Dave had burst out laughing.

You think you heard them mutter in unison: “Told you so.”

You used to build things a lot back when your father was alive, and the crown hadn’t yet fallen to your head. It’s an odd, pointless talent that you have. And you remind yourself that John had seemed interested in the blueprints for a clockwork piece that you’d made for Dave a while back. Though, maybe he was just being polite. Maybe this was a bold assumption.

On second thought, it’s not too late to throw it over the ledge and make a run for it. That was a bad idea.

“Well?” John asks expectantly. “I know I said you didn’t have to, but now I’m curious!”

Right.

You crouch to one knee and set down the tiny mechanical rabbit. Its body is crafted from a patchwork of smooth gunmetal and copper, seamlessly welded together to make a skeletal framework that allows you to see all of the intricate, clockwork innards. John quietly joins you in kneeling, his gaze transfixed. With your heart in your throat, you wind the key on its back. All the pieces come to life, the cogs turning and working in tandem to make the rabbit move. It doesn’t get far, but you can admit that it’s fairly impressive.

But John still hasn’t said anything. That’s concerning.

“If you don’t like it—”

“I love it,” he says quickly, voice sounds unsteady as he gently scoops up the figure. “It’s a rabbit.”

“Yes.”

“I love rabbits.”

“I remember.”

John’s eyes water behind his eyeglasses and he holds a tight smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course—” That’s all you manage to get out before there are dry lips on your cheek. Just a quick peck, there and gone, but it burns long into the night.

Yes. Rose is right, as always.

You’re in love with the gardener.

A letter sits forebodingly on your desk and you regard it like the plague.

You can’t bring yourself to read it again in full. Once was enough; you gleaned everything that you needed to know. That Prospit has settled on a deal, and not any of the countless ones you've proposed over the course of several months. It makes sense now, why so many of your negotiations had been rebuffed. You can read between the lines.

They’ve known exactly what they wanted since the very beginning.

Much of what Derse libraries hold on the Prospitians and their culture has been lost over time. The separation of the kingdoms, and the wars that waged between them, caused a cultural rift and what’s left can be boiled down to myth and legend. For example, with their penchant for magic and trickery, many believe them to be descendants of the Fae. But you’ve never pandered to the rumors before. Until now.

You’re feeling _very_ tricked.

The royal House of Prospit led you into a false sense of control, led you to believe that you had a say. Then dragged you along for the fun of it, only to promptly rip the rug from beneath your Dersite boots.

In retrospect, you should have seen this coming.

How else do you unite two lands permanently and without bloodshed? Crops and soldiers can only go so far. A true union is needed.

And so, for Derse, you must wed the Heir of Prospit.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re quiet,” John says with a frown.

You stand a careful distance from your window, hands balled into fists at your side, nails biting crescent moons into your palms. You need to tell John. You need to dismiss him. Banish him, for your heart’s sake.

You need to kiss him.

You need to hold him close.

You need to bequeath the throne to Dave or Rose—whichever, they’d both make a more capable leader than you—and you need to flee with John at your side. You can go to his homeland, wherever that may be. You can go somewhere new. Just somewhere far away from Derse and farther away from Prospit.

You don’t do any of that. You can’t move.

Each obliviously concerned look from John hammers the nail in your heart, driving it right through the core of your chest, splintering you into factions.

“Dirk?”

You need to tell him.

“Are you okay?”

You need to.

“Hey, I’m coming in.” John crawls through the window, tumbling ungracefully to the floor. He stands, brushes off his pants, and clears his throat. This is the first time he’s ever been inside your study. He looks at home.

“John, listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“It can wait.”

“It really cannot,” you insist.

John doesn't seem to agree. A warm hand grabs your wrist and drags you around the room like a ragdoll. You’re helpless to follow but you’re not sure where John’s _trying_ to go, and you lack the capacity to ask him. Let him lead, you decide. Let him lead you anywhere but here.

Finally, John pauses and places a finger to his chin. “Normally studies are attached to bedrooms. Is yours? I only see one door but I’m assuming that leads to the main hall since I’ve seen the maids come in and out.”

Oh.

You feel your face go scarlet. He wants to go to your bedroom.

You take him to a bookshelf lined with empty tomes. There’s a large purple one with a golden crescent moon on the spine that sticks out farther than the rest. You pull it like a door handle.

Next to you, John sucks in a breath. “You have a hidden door?”

“Yes.”

“That’s amazing.”

“This is the only way to my bedchamber. Growing up, I wanted Dave and Rose to leave me alone,” you tell him, smiling at a memory that’s now fond. “It didn’t work very well. Rose solved the puzzle pretty quickly.”

“Siblings,” John sighs sympathetically. “Sometimes they find your brilliant hidden door. Sometimes they force you into arrangements that you’re not ready for.” He looks at you and begins to stutter, tripping over his tongue.

Odd.

You don’t have time to process John’s nonsense; he shoves at your back, pushing you into the room.

It’s unimpressive. The servants keep it sterile and clean and fit for a prince. But it feels empty and hollow. All of your spare parts and scrap metals have been relocated to your workshop. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anymore. Just the basics remain. Including the four-post bed that you’re being ushered too.

“Get in,” John commands.

You do.

This isn’t really where you thought this was going.

You’re laying down, tucked under the quilts, regrettably clothed. John sits on the edge of the bed, talking animatedly.

“…and so, the four friends travel the kingdom, exorcising horrible ancient deities…”

He’s been going on for so long that your eyes are growing heavy and its only midday. It started with one fable from his childhood, and then another, and then another, and they’ve grown increasingly ridiculous with each passing minute. John doesn’t seem to register that. He just keeps talking, occasionally waving his hands for emphasis, and you keep watching.

You could listen to this absurd, long-winded ramble for eternity.

“…they face one beast who transforms into a physical manifestation of their subconscious thoughts…”

He’s lovely like this, you think.

“…some of the beasts leave this sort of…spectral ooze? It’s really strange…”

You’ll miss him.

You reach out and thread your fingers together. John keeps on talking.

You’ll tell him, but not tonight.

Perhaps, just one more day in blissful unawareness couldn’t hurt.

You tell him two days before the delegates from Prospit are set to arrive. Two days before you meet your betrothed. The reaction to his news is minimal and it’s hard to tell if John’s keeping himself stoic because he’s upset or because he’s unbothered.

Neither prospect settles well with you.

You haven’t discussed your feelings, and nothing between you has ever surpassed tender touches, aside from his one chaste kiss on your cheek. You’d foolishly hoped that your bond transcended verbal communication. You’d foolishly hoped that you both _knew_ and didn’t have to say it.

Mostly because you can’t.

“I don’t want to do this,” you admit, “but I have to. It’s my duty to my people and Derse.”

It's a line you've rehearsed again and again to your reflection. A line you've inked into paper over and over, trying to ink it into your brain, your heart.

“I understand,” John says.

That’s it. He understands.

Hurt pierces your chest like an arrow. “I see.” 

“I’m sorry.” John shakes his head, huffing out a nervous laugh and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just don’t really know what to say?”

_That you love me._

You stiffen, sniffing back the pain of his indifference. “I guess there isn’t anything to say. I just thought you should know. They’ll be here in two days.”

“What do you know about him?”

You frown, looking away to focus the round blossoms of your mysterious golden flowers. The awful truth of the matter is, you know more about these flowers than you do your betrothed.

“Virtually nothing,” you tell him. “Prospit is a very private kingdom. They keep themselves locked away, except to send soldiers to the battlefield, or to deliver messages. To make matters worse, the royal family only publicly refers to themselves as their formal titles. For reference, my correspondence has been strictly with the Maid of Prospit, but I’m assuming that she isn’t a maid in the sense that I’m familiar with.”

John snorts. “Probably not.”

“But it’s her brother that they want me to marry. The Heir of Prospit. The only thing I’ve managed to decipher from the last letter is that he has some sort of breath magic?” You groan, frustrated at your lack of understanding. “Once again, I’m assuming that means air and not literal breath.”

“Could be both,” John says, nudging you. “Maybe you’ll even like him.”

“Maybe,” you repeat numbly.

There’s no use in saying, "he won’t be you." So, you don’t.

Before he leaves, John takes you by the hand, bending at the knee. For him, it’s an oddly formal gesture. John doesn’t burden himself with such niceties, always choosing to strip you from your title and treat you as he would a fellow laborer.

As much as you admire that and strive to keep your relationship on equal ground, the sight of John at your feet makes you dizzy and weak.

He guides your hand to his mouth, looking up from beneath a fan of dark lashes before softly kissing your knuckles.

“John…”

He presses another, and another, each lighter than the last until he’s pulling away and crawling back through the window to leave you where you stand, dumbstruck in the middle of your study. Part of you screams to pull him back in, to pull him to you. All of you remains rooted, frozen in indecision.

“Give him a chance, Your Majesty,” John says.

And then he’s gone.

You wake up from a restless sleep, filled with dreams of John.

You decide that today, the day before your wedding, will be the day that you kiss him for the first and last time. You’ll tell him how you feel, though it doesn’t matter. It could be cathartic for you to say aloud, even just once.

You can move on knowing that he was never left wondering how you felt.

Closure.

But, for the first time in many months, John doesn’t show.

The following morning is a somber affair.

To your valets’ horror, you request that they dress you in the study. The change requires them to transport the full-length mirror along with the mannequins that host your wedding robes halfway across the castle. A tedious event, but you don’t care. It’s been a while since you’ve behaved like a proper spoiled prince and you’re too sad to feel guilty.

You don’t want to miss John on the off chance that he drops by.

You spend the rest of the morning watching the window where the overgrowth has begun to creep inside, while a team of servants dress you in the most complicated attire imaginably.

There’s never anything but a gentle breeze.

“Try not to look so glum,” Rose whispers, voice quiet under the chorus of clicking heels. “It’s your wedding day.”

From your left, Dave gives a spiteful laugh. “Yes, Rose. That’s why he’s glum.”

You’re stuck between their bickering, staring blankly ahead at the armored backs of the entourage tasked with escorting you to the throne room. Rose slips her hand through yours long enough to give a tight squeeze. It’s her quiet way of reassuring you.

“It’s a marriage of convenience,” Dave says, a bit too loudly. “It’s all politics. You aren’t even expected to copulate! I’m sure your new husband won’t mind that you have a lover on the side. He probably has one too. Isn’t that the societal norm for royal entanglements?”

And that’s _his_ not-so-quiet way.

You sigh, a dull ache blooming between your eyes. He’s not wrong. But it’s just that…

“Our dear brother is a romantic,” Rose says.

She’s not wrong either.

Dave makes a retching sound like the very notion of romance repulses him. A clever charade by an insecure boy. You and Rose both know that he has eyes for the surly Alternian knight that’s recently transferred to Derse’s militia guard. He’s not as subtle as he thinks.

But you won’t call him out on it. For now.

It seems like an eternity before you reach the large, double doors leading to the throne. You look up at them with your heart in your throat. They’ve never felt so menacing, not even during your coronation, and you’ve quietly considered that the cruelest day of your life for some time now.

On the other side is a man you’ve never met; from a kingdom that you know nothing about. A kingdom that has long resented yours. The two of you will be forced into a handfasting ceremony without even having a proper conversation.

It’s at that moment, you have an epiphany. There’s no way he wants this either. He’s on the other side of these doors, dreading them to open, just as much as you are.

What a strange silver-lining.

You don’t know where to look.

The throne room has been off-limits to you for several days for the preparation. Since then, the walls have been draped in banners; purple for Derse, gold for Prospit. A carpet has been unrolled, providing a path for you to walk on, softening the click of your boots against the flagstone. You look down to see the aisle lined in bulbous, glowing flowers that are achingly familiar in nature. It shouldn't come as a surprise. There are so many in the gardens now and they’re a glittering Prospit gold, it only makes sense to use them. But the intimate phantom of John’s presence makes your throat tighten and close up.

You wonder if he can see you now. You wonder if he’s hiding in the crowd of nobles you barely recognize; if he’s perched in a window or the rafters. He likes pranks. Crashing the royal wedding would be a great one, you think.

But he's never been any good at them.

You can’t see past the guards or their shields. You’re not sure if you’re thankful for that or not. On the one hand, you don’t want to look because that will only make things real. On the other, you want the thrum of anticipation to leave you. Maybe then your hands will finally stop shaking.

When the guards come to an abrupt stop, you nearly crash into their backs, so caught up in your head.

It’s time.

Dave and Rose both put a gentle hand on the small of your back before stepping away. You don’t want them to leave. You want them here at your side to see you through this. Rose with her wisdom and Dave with his sword.

It’s too late. The guards split, parting the path and you’re left standing alone in the spotlight. All eyes are on you, especially the row of unfamiliar greens and blues at the bottom of the stairs.

The first set of eyes you make contact with are a light, baby blue. The color is familiar, eerily reminiscent of the inky signature that the Maid of Prospit had used to end her letters. She regards you with a matched curiosity, dark brow lifted just over the ridge of her ruby spectacles. In a funny way, she reminds you of John.

But he moment your gaze shifts to her left, your heart solidifies into a block of dread and your assessment of the Prospitian court quickly comes to a screeching halt. The pillars that supported the last six months of your life begin to crumble and you’re helpless to stop it. Doubt takes root. Thousands of questions with no answers surface to the forefront of your mind. You no longer know what’s real, and what’s been a cleverly contrived game. 

Because there, standing next to the Maid of Prospit, is John.


End file.
